Suicidal Curiosity
by SherlockWhovian
Summary: Ever since Sherlock solved a case that involved two people who committed suicide, he has grown curious of how the people felt when they were dying. Is there an adrenalin rush that not even drugs could create? So he decided to conduct an experiment, but what he doesn't know is how it would affect others, especially John. WARNING: Suicide attempts and drug references
1. Growing Curiosity

**Chapter 1: Growing Curiosity**

**A/N: I do not own the BBC Sherlock characters, just the story line and any other characters that may pop up in the story that are not known in the original series.**

_It is said, that every forty seconds somebody dies by suicide. Whether it's from poison, firearm, overdosing, or hanging, suicide is an unstoppable factor that no one truly understands. Every year, one million people end up killing themselves, and the number continues to grow. But there are more failed attempts than there are actual suicides, so there is more hope in reaching out to these people and giving them the help they need to prevent it from happening again._

Sherlock shut his laptop in frustration. None of this information was useful; it's just another psychologist who thinks they understand how everyone feels because they read it in a textbook at a university. Ever since Sherlock finished a case where a man and a teenage girl committed suicide in the same building, he has been curious on how the people felt when they were dying. He could not find any information on the subject. _Why are humans so ignorant? _He thought to himself.

Sherlock set down his laptop beside him on the sofa. He was alone since John was at the surgery and Mrs. Hudson was at her daughter's house; Sherlock was quite happy for the silence.

_Why are humans so ignorant? _Sherlock repeated in his mind. _What goes through their boring, little minds? If suicide is one of the leading causes of death in the world, what drives them to taking their lives? It can't possibly be for all the same reasons. What do they feel in their last few minutes of their existence? Pain? Sadness? Relief? Certainly not happiness. _

Sherlock moaned out loud; the feeling of not knowing something was killing him. He needed something that will clear his mind, but he was all out of nicotine patches, and no one in a two mile radius will sell him any cigarettes.

A little thought popped up in the back of his mind. He had an old stash of cocaine in his room and a few unused syringe needles that he was going to use for an experiment that he never got to doing. Sherlock shook his head. He has been clean for six years now and had promised himself that he would never go back. But he couldn't help the temptation that bubbled inside him. He was alone, and he could quickly dispose of it before John came home.

Sherlock instantly ran to his room and pulled one of his dressers forward, showing a small hole in the wall that held the bottled drug. He grabbed it and pushed the dresser back up against the wall, hiding the hole from site. On his way out of the bedroom, he picked up two syringe needles and an elastic band off the kitchen table.

He walked into the bathroom and closed the door, locking it in the process. This is where he used to always take cocaine, since it was the most private room in the flat. It was also the best place to be just in case John came back early.

Sherlock closed the lid of the loo and sat down upon it. He rolled up the left sleeve of his purple shirt, revealing the pale skin that hid underneath. With his right arm, he grabbed the elastic band and tied it tightly around the upper part of his other arm, using his mouth to help tie it. He clenched and unclenched his fist until he saw the two blue veins in the crook of his elbow.

Sherlock body filled with anticipation, waiting for the soon rush of adrenalin that comes with using the drug. _Why do humans turn to death when they are in deep depression? _Sherlock thought as he prepared the needle. _Could there possibly be any relief in taking your only life? Even if they don't go through with it, is dying like the rush that drugs provide? Does adrenalin form during your last few minutes of life?_

A thought popped into his brilliant mind. _Why try and find an answer to all your questions on the internet when you can get them first hand? _Sherlock set down the needle on the edge of the bathtub and took off the elastic band. He quickly rushed out of the bathroom and sat down on the sofa again, completely forgetting about the drugs; there is no need for them when there is now something exciting to do. But before he could act, he needed to plan everything.

The questioning will soon be over. Sherlock Holmes was going to attempt suicide.


	2. Day of Execution

**Chapter 2: Day of Execution**

Almost two weeks have passed since Sherlock sat in his bathroom with the cocaine filled needle in his right hand, thinking. He was contemplating on how people felt while they were on the verge of death. Since nothing on the internet was useful, Sherlock decided that he was going to conduct an experiment, giving him the information that he wanted, first hand.

In the past couple of days, he has been planning his suicide attempt to the mere second. Everything has to be done precisely, so he won't accidently kill himself in the process. Today is the day that Sherlock has been waiting for.

This whole week, Sherlock has been sending John on errands to a store that is closest to 221B Baker Street, timing him to see how long he takes to go get the "needed" item and come back. John got very frustrated after a while, especially when milk was the item that Sherlock asked for most of the days. He did not understand how Sherlock could go through a whole carton of milk in one day; when in actuality all he was doing was dumping it in the kitchen sink. But, this was very important to Sherlock's plan, since if John was home when he was starting to conduct his experiment or he came back early, he would try to stop him before he got the results he wanted.

Mrs. Hudson wasn't going to be a problem because she has been ill for the past few days and is bed ridden, so she is constantly sleeping in her room.

Sherlock is lying on the sofa, his hands placed under his chin in a prayer position, while John is sitting in his usual chair, reading a newspaper.

"John?" Sherlock spoke, not even bothering to look over at his flat mate.

"Hm."

"We are all out of milk again; can you go to the store and get some?"

John sighed heavily as he folded his paper over, so he could glare at Sherlock with his intense blue eyes. "I just bought you a carton yesterday."

"Well, I obviously used it all," Sherlock said, arrogantly, returning the glare.

"Why the hell do I always have to get it?"

"Because, _John_, I am very busy." He emphasized John's name a little too harshly.

"You have been lying on that damn couch all day! What can you possibly be doing that is so important?"

Sherlock ignored his remark and averted his gaze to stare blankly at the wall again, which irritated John even more.

"Fine, I'll go get the bloody milk, you lazy prick," John mumbled under his breath as he got up and headed for the door, grabbing his coat in the process.

As soon as Sherlock heard the front door close, he quickly sprang off the sofa. He looked out the window just to make sure John was actually leaving. He was relieved when he saw John's back as he walked out of 221B Baker Street. _ Okay, so I have approximately 9 minutes to get everything set up._ Sherlock thought as he strode across the room.

Sherlock went to John's chair and set the cushion aside. This was always his best hiding place for things, other than his flat mate's underwear drawer, since John never expected for him to hide anything there. He pulled back a flap of fabric that was covering the contents hidden inside the seat. When removed it revealed his suicide item of choice, a noose.

He had to be careful with using a noose since he could easily snap his neck or collapse his trachea, which would cause him to die almost instantly.

Sherlock grabbed the item and moved to the portion of the room where he usually hung dummies when he was working on a case that dealt with the victim getting hanged. This was right next to the entrance of the kitchen, and since John will be automatically be going to the kitchen when he comes back, he will see Sherlock.

He grabbed one of the kitchen chairs and stood on it, so he could reach the ceiling. There is a loose ceiling post that he can easily tie the end of the rope around, and it should be able to hold Sherlock's weight. He checks the length to make sure his body will be at least one foot off the ground, then pulls on it to check to see if it is tight enough.

Sherlock glances at his watch; 10:44. John should be back any moment now. He walks over to the window and waits. After a two minutes pass he sees John approaching, carrying the groceries in his right hand.

He quickly runs over to the chair and stands on it. He could feel his heart beating out of his chest, as the adrenalin kicks in. Sherlock hesitated and took a deep breath. Knowing there was not much time till John enters the flat, he takes the noose and puts it around his neck and tightens it. He draws in one last breath, closes his eyes, and kicks the chair.

**A/N: Cliff hanger alert! Sorry I haven't updated recently, I have been getting ready for school. I should probably stop procrastinating… I am also sorry that it is short. I will try to make the next chapter longer. I hope to see some reviews. (: Thank you for reading.**


	3. Emotional Trauma

**Chapter 3: Emotional Trauma**

The pain didn't immediately hit him right away; at first all he could feel was the strong rush of adrenalin coursing through his veins. It was as if all his endorphins started to work overtime, giving him an incredible high. In fact, the feeling was so overpowering and extraordinary, that no drug would ever be able to create the same response.

But the feeling didn't last long. After a few seconds, it faded away and what came after it was something that no human being would ever wish on another. Excruciating pain filled his body. His lungs constricted from lack of being able to breathe in oxygen, making Sherlock feel like he was drowning in air. The pressure against the trachea in his neck was so unbearable, that it felt like it could collapse any second. Sherlock's body began to feel heavy as if someone strapped a bunch of weights to his hanging figure. The dizziness kicked in, and his muscles started to spasm from his circulation being cut off and the lack of oxygen in his brain.

Sherlock tried to bring his hands to the rope on his neck to try relieving the pain from his body, but his brain couldn't send a message through his nervous system to his limbs.

His vision started to blur from tears forming in his eyes, and his ears were filled with a God awful ringing sound, as if there was phones constantly going off right next to his eardrums. As he started to fade in and out of consciousness, all he could make out was a shadowy silhouette of a figure moving towards him, and then everything went dark.

XxX

John walked towards 221B Baker Street, carrying a grocery bag with two cartons of milk in his left hand. He was still pissed off at Sherlock and wondered why he let himself get pushed around by his flat mate all the time. But John knew he couldn't leave Sherlock; his life after coming back from Afghanistan was so lonely and worthless before he met him. His friend cured his psychosomatic limp, and his nightmares of the war practically never occurred anymore.

When John got to the building, he let out a heavy sigh and shook his head._ I will just quickly put the milk away and hope that Sherlock acts like I'm not even there like he always does._ John thought to himself. He stepped through the doorway and shut the door behind him.

The flat was quieter than usual. He didn't hear any footsteps from upstairs or even the sound of one of Sherlock's experiments bubbling. This slightly worried John, but he mentally kicked himself for being so paranoid. They weren't on any cases right now, and Moriarty has completely disappeared ever since that moment beside the pool; the possible deadly threats were at an all-time low. But, John couldn't help but feel uneasy about the unsettling silence.

He slowly walked up the stairs, making sure he did not make any noise that would startle any possible murderer or thief that may be waiting for him upstairs. When he reached the closed door to the sitting room, he took the gun out of the back of his pants and loaded it. John wanted to be ready for anything that might be in the room. He grabbed the door knob, turned it cautiously, and pushed the door open.

John breathed a sigh of relief to find that there was no madman in the room. As he turned to go to his bedroom, he realized that he still had the bag of milk in his hand. He grunted and stepped into the room.

John turned to walk towards the kitchen but stopped dead in his tracks. His heart stopped beating as he caught sight of his best friend's limp body hanging for the ceiling and the chair that was knocked over below him. After a few seconds, the situation finally processed in his mind. He dropped the two cartons of milk and his gun and ran over to Sherlock, his army doctor reflexes kicking in. John set the chair upright and stepped on it. He grabbed his flat mate and lifted him up as much as he could, so he could remove the noose that was around his neck. When the noose loosened, John pulled it over Sherlock's head.

John got off the chair and laid Sherlock on the ground. He placed his ear on his flat mate's chest and listened for a heartbeat; it was faint but at least it was there. Next thing John did was move his hand above Sherlock's mouth to check to see if he was still breathing. John tensed when he could not feel even feel a wisp of breath against his skin; John knew we would have to perform CPR. He tilted Sherlock's head back as softly as he could, just in case there was a neck injury, and opened Sherlock's mouth. John took a deep breath and placed his mouth against his flat mate's, forcing his air into Sherlock's lungs. He pulled away and placed his hand again to see if there was any breath that exhaled, but there was none.

He repeated this process three more times, without success. John eyes began to tear up as he listened to Sherlock's heart again and it was fainter than the last time. This made John panic, which pushed him try harder to get Sherlock to stay alive.

"Oh God don't do this to me… please don't leave me. Just breath," John spoke softly as he looked down at Sherlock's body.

John took the deepest breath he could and placed his lips against Sherlock's once more and tried to force life into his flat mate. His wet tears fell from his eyes and dripped onto his best friend's face.

Suddenly, Sherlock coughed and gasped for air. John moved his head away and placed Sherlock on his side, to make sure he doesn't asphyxiate. After a while Sherlock's breathing slowed but he never opened his eyes. John quickly grabbed his cell phone out of his pocket and called 999.

"Emergency, which service do you require?" A woman's voice spoke over the phone.

"My f-flat mate tried to commit suicide and is unconscious," John sputtered out, trying to stay calm.

"I need your name, address, and phone number, sir."

"J-John Watson. I'm at 221B Baker Street. My mobile number is 945 – 3884."

"Thank you. The ambulance should be there any minute."

And with that, John hung up and focused all his attention on Sherlock. He moved back towards Sherlock and held his cold body in his arms as carefully as he could, as if he was trying to protect him from anything that could harm him more. For the first time since he found his flat mate, John actually got a good look at the damage. Sherlock looked frail. Anyone could tell that if you barely touched him, he would most likely shatter to pieces. His neck was bruised and rubbed raw, probably from Sherlock's body thrashing about when the oxygen supply got cut off. This made John's stomach turn.

Questions swarmed through John's head as he held his best friend in his arms. _Is this my fault? Why didn't I see any signs that Sherlock needed help? Did I say something that pushed him over the edge? Did he want me to leave and get milk because he didn't want me to stop him from killing himself?_

In that moment a realization hit him like a ton of bricks._ This __**is**__ all my fault._

And this made John's heart ache even more.

**A/N: I am so, so sorry for not updating sooner. I have been extremely busy with school and marching band. I hope you like the new chapter, though. I always look forward to reading reviews; it encourages me to keep writing.**


	4. Aftermath

**Chapter 4: Aftermath**

John could hear the sound of the ambulance sirens getting louder as it came down Baker Street. He knew that he should go to the front door and open it for the paramedics, but he could not stand the thought of letting Sherlock's cold, pale figure out of his arms. Most of all, John was afraid; he was afraid that Sherlock would suddenly stop breathing again; that the life would simply be drawn from his last breath. That maybe next time, he will not be able to save him and would have to watch his friend die. John would not be able to live with himself after that.

So, he just sat there and waited in dead silence, trying to keep his emotions at bay and be strong for Sherlock's sake. He held his left hand over Sherlock's wrist so he could feel his slow, soft heartbeat and just to give a little bit of hope that he was still alive.

There was a loud screeching of breaks coming to a halt outside the flat. The sound of metal against metal made a shiver crawl up John's spine. Soon after, there was a swift knock at the door; John did not move. There was another knock, but this time it was louder; John still did not move; how could he. After a few seconds they got the idea and broke open the door.

"We are up here!" John cried out to the paramedics downstairs, whom started to quickly ascend the staircase.

The door to the sitting room opened and four paramedics rushed in. Once they got over to them, they had to basically rip Sherlock from John's protective arms so they could mobilize him as quickly as possible, to put him onto the gurney without causing even more damage to the patient.

John stood up and got out of the way so the paramedics had more room. He watched them intently as they lifted the stretcher so they could carry it down the steps of the flat. John followed them slowly as they descended out the door onto Baker Street. There was a lot of commotion outside, but John did not pay any attention to it, as his eyes were fixed on Sherlock.

When they got the ambulance, they pulled the stretcher into the automobile. John was about to get in when a medic stopped him.

"Sorry sir, but only family members can ride in the ambulance," the medic explained.

This statement made John panic. He had to get in that ambulance! He could not leave Sherlock's side. So he quickly blurted out the first excuse he could think out. "Please, I am the closest thing to family he has." Of course this statement was not entirely true. John knew that Sherlock had Mycroft and maybe his parents were still alive, but he did not think much of it. All he could think about was keeping Sherlock in his sight.

"Oh I see. You must be his fiancé."

John was about to object and yell out, _if anyone cares to listen, I'm not actually gay_, but decided against it. If that was the only way he was getting in that ambulance, then he would comply. "Yes, I am his fiancé."

The man nodded and stepped out of the way. "Okay, get in."

John climbed in and sat on the farthest part of the designated family member seating area, to make sure he was not in the way while the paramedics worked on his friend, and because it was right beside Sherlock's head.

The doors were closed right before the ambulance started heading off to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. It moved forward with a slight jerk, which made Sherlock whimper softly in his unconsciousness from the sudden movement.

"Shhh… It's okay Sherlock," John softly spoke, brushing the stray hair that stuck to his pale face from the sweat that was trickling down it, trying to comfort him. He knew his friend would not be able to hear him, but he felt like it was the best thing he could to right now. "You will feel better soon, I-I promise."

His voice caught with the last part of the comment because he knew that he could not promise anything like that; He did not know much himself if his friend would even survive the trip to the hospital. John could not stand the thought of it. _Oh God, please let him live._

The medics worked on Sherlock, treating his neck with a brace to keep it stable and pumping oxygen in his lungs to keep him breathing. They also connected him to a heart monitor so they could track his every heartbeat. John blocked out the voices of the medics and listened closely to the soft beeping of the machine and watched the rapid rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. That was the only thing left that gave him hope that is best friend was going to live.

_Damn it, I wish I could take back all those terrible things I said to you._ John thought, engulfed in his own conscious. _I wish I was able to see the signs that you were not okay. You were always right; I see but do not observe. I wish I had your amazing, brilliant m…_

A loud, monotonous sound brought John out of his thoughts. He looked around, panicking, until he saw what was making the noise. The sound came from the cardiac monitor flat lining.

The paramedics quickly moved to both sides of Sherlock's body; one of them dragging a defibrillator and the other ripping Sherlock's shirt open more, until his whole chest was showing. The man turned on the machine and set it to the right amount of Joules.

"Charge to 200 and CLEAR!" He yelled, as he pressed the paddles against Sherlock's pale chest; his chest jumped off the bed in response to the shock. There was no heartbeat.

"Charge to 300 and CLEAR!" John watched in horror, tears streaming down his face, as Sherlock's back concaved even more at the second shock. But the cardiac machine continued flat lining.

"Charge to 360 and CLEAR!" They pressed the paddles one last time on his chest.

They were not expecting a response because the patient was surely long gone. But the impossible happened. Sherlock gasped loudly, his eyes widening in terror as he was brought back from the dead.

John let out the breath that he was holding. "Jesus," he mumbled as he put his face in his hands, hiding the tears that still glistened in his eyes and stained his cheeks.

**A/N: I am EXTREMELY sorry for not updating any sooner. I feel so terrible for making you guys wait for this chapter. My life has been hectic for the last two months with a ton of school work, marching band, being sick for many days, and my grandfather dying recently. Anyway, I hope you like this chapter. I am glad you are very patient with me, and I hope to be able to update more often now. I always love seeing your reviews and comments. :) **


	5. The Waiting

**Chapter 5: **The Waiting

John lifted his head from his hands, eyes blaring red from the tears that fell from them. Sherlock was beginning to normalize his breathing as he went back into the oblivion of unconsciousness, but his body still shook with a slight tremor from the electric shock that spread through his chest to restart his heart.

John felt anxious, very anxious. He rubbed his weak hand on the back of his neck, feeling the sweat that perspired on his skin. For a few seconds, time seemed to stop; the medics moving in slow motion as they continued to work on Sherlock. John could not help feeling like he was moving slightly faster than the rest of them. His breathing was rapid and shallow, his pulse racing at an unbelievable speed, giving him a painful feeling like his heart was about to beat out of his chest.

Someone touched his shoulder, which seemed to make time go back to its normal pace. John looked up to see who the hand belonged to.

"Hey bloke, are you alright?" One of the paramedics asked, now looking into John's eyes, pupils dilated. John could not comprehend what words were being said to him, everyone sounded sloshy, like they were underwater.

The man pulled something out of one of the compartments attached to the wall; an orange blanket. "It's okay. You are just in shock." He placed the blanket around John's shoulders. "Do you have any family history of heart disease?" John shook his head. "Okay, then you should be fine. Just try to breathe normally and tell us if anything else is wrong."

John pulled the shock blanket around himself tightly, obeying the orders of the paramedic. He started to slowly stop shivering as his body temperature rose, but the blanket did not help getting rid of the chill that ran up his spine, making John feel on edge with everything around him. The only calming thing was the rise and fall of Sherlock's pale chest.

As the ambulance neared Saint Bartholomew's, the medics began to prepare Sherlock for transport into the hospital. They softly strapped him to the gurney, making sure to avoid hurting him.

They came to a halt as they made their way to the front of the emergency entrance. After a few seconds the back doors swung open and two more medics appeared to help carry Sherlock out of the ambulance gently.

John followed them as they quickly pushed Sherlock into the hospital and through the double doors that led to the emergency rooms. A nurse stopped John in his process of going through the entry by stepping in front of his path, which made John panic a little as he did not want to leave Sherlock's side.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we have to ask you to stay in the waiting room. A doctor will update you as soon as possible," The nurse explained, sympathy showing on her face.

John looked past the nurse and stared through the small windows on the closed doors, watching Sherlock's body disappear into a different hallway. He let out a sigh and nodded, understanding.

The nurse gave him a sad smile, as though she felt his pain, and walked away.

John sat down on one of the chairs, the blanket hanging over his shoulders, exhaustion finally hitting him. He was so tired, but he could not stand the thought of sleeping. So he just sat there and waited, having to shift his seating position from time to time, since the waiting room chairs were not the most comfortable things in the world and made his butt go numb every time his circulation was being cut off.

John glanced at the few people around him. There was a young man sitting alone that looked to be about twenty six. The man was biting his lip and rubbed his hands together, anxiously, obviously waiting as patient as he possibly could. _He is probably waiting for news. He does not look like he is waiting for news on someone who is badly injured, so someone he knows is probably having a baby, most likely a sister._ John laughed at how he was starting to pick up on Sherlock's deduction skills. He closed his eyes for a moment, holding back some tears that were sure to release. His heart ached at the thought of his friend. He decided to distract himself by looking at the other people in the room.

John glanced at an old woman with two little kids, which looked to be her grandchildren. The old woman reminded him of someone, but he did not know who. After about a minute, the realization hit him. _Oh shit._ John swore inside his mind. _I forgot about Mrs. Hudson._

He pulled his mobile out of his pocket. The screen glowed with life as he turned it on. _Five missed calls, and two new messages._

John internally kicked himself when he figured out all those missed calls were from his landlady. _I am such an idiot! How could I forget about Mrs. Hudson, the poor woman is probably terrified?_

John dialed Mrs. Hudson's number and pressed the call button. It rang twice before she answered.

"Oh John, is that you?" Mrs. Hudson said through hurried words, worry showing in her voice. "I heard sirens! What happened; where are you and Sherlock? Are you boys alright?"

John spoke, his voice shaking slightly. "Sherlock is in the hospital. He tried…" John stopped himself before he could say anymore. The words were too painful, and he did not want to make Mrs. Hudson worry more than she already was. "He got injured."

"Oh my dear John, please say he is okay!"

"I-I don't know at the moment," John said. He was telling the truth; he doesn't know if Sherlock is okay or not, or if he will survive. _Oh God, please let him live_, the thought ever present in his mind.

There was silence on Mrs. Hudson's end of the line that made John wonder if he lost connection. He heard shuffling sounds, as if someone was getting out of bed. After a few seconds, she spoke up again. "What hospital are you at?"

"Mrs. Hudson, you are ill; I do not think it is a very good idea for you to come to a hospital," John protested, trying to keep his voice down.

"I am perfectly fine, John; I only have a head cold. Now, please, tell me what hospital you are at."

Mrs. Hudson can be stubborn when she wants to be. John just did not want Mrs. Hudson finding out the real reason why Sherlock was in the hospital, but he knew she was going to find out sooner or later, so he finally gave in. "We are at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital."

"I will be there soon. Oh, I hope he is alright!" Mrs. Hudson said before she hung up.

"Yeah, me too," John mumbled, just barely enough for even himself to hear.

John pressed the end button on his mobile. He had to admit that he was happy Mrs. Hudson was coming; he did not have to be alone now through this endeavor. John decided to proceed in distracting himself even longer by checking the messages on his phone.

_Two New Messages_

John opened the first one, which turned out to be from Lestrade.

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**15/11/12 09:31am**

**Hey, John, can you tell Sherlock to **

**answer his bloody phone. We have **

**a new case for him.**

John checked his watch; the text was only sent a little more than an hour ago._ I hope it is not a triple murder case or else Sherlock would probably have someone's head._ John cringed at his less than humorous mental comment. _A bit not good._ John opened the second message, which he found out was from the same person.

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**15/11/12 10:26**

**John, is something going on? It**

**is so unlike you to not to answer**

**your phone.**

John turned off the screen of his mobile and set it on his leg, having no will to type anything. He proceeded to massage his forehead, to try and stop the pounding headache that was beginning to form. John figured it was probably the shock that was causing it. This caused him to pull the orange blanket more tightly around himself.

_How long does shock usually last?_ John questioned himself but could not remember. He knew that it would probably last for a long while. He could not get the terrible images of Sherlock's twitching body hanging from the rope around his neck to disappear from his head. It sent a God awful chill down his back just thinking about it.

John felt a buzz sensation on his leg and looked down to see his phone had lit up. He grabbed it.

_One new message_

John opened the message with the click of a button.

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**15/11/12 10:43**

**Someone in the office just got a**

**999 emergency report with your **

**flat address on it. Since it is not**

**my division, they will not tell me **

**what the hell is going on. Can you**

**please enlighten me on this matter?**

John sighed deeply and decided to reply.

**To: Greg Lestrade**

**15/11/12 10:47**

**Sherlock is being hospitalized. We  
are at Saint Bart's.**

John did not feel the need to say anymore, so he left it at that, continuing to wait for news on his friend.

**A/N: I am sooooooo sorry I have not updated earlier! My life has been so hectic with school and everything. Well this is more of a transition chapter so... I hope it does not bore you too much. I love seeing everyone's reviews; it helps me keep writing. I will try an update as soon as possible! (:**


	6. The Guilt

**Chapter 6: The Guilt**

John had been sitting in the uncomfortable, plastic waiting room chair for what seemed like hours. He knew that was not quite true because the clock on the wall opposite from where he was sitting told him that it was only eleven twenty-two in the morning.

John shifted in his chair, trying to become at least a little more comfortable, which was obviously going to be a hopeless cause. John sighed and slowly stood up onto his stiff legs. He stood still for a second having the blood circulate through his legs, then started to pace the floor, having nothing better to do, as he used the orange shock blanket to wipe the cold sweat off his face.

He hated this; waiting. John was waiting for news on if Sherlock was alive. He was waiting for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to arrive, if Lestrade was even coming. He was waiting for his heart to stop aching and for his breath to catch back up with him. Just waiting. Compared to Sherlock, John always thought he was the patient one; now he understands how Sherlock felt.

_Feels._ John angrily thought to himself. _How Sherlock feels. Stop speaking like he is dead. He… He is not dead. He can't be dead. Sherlock bloody Holmes is still alive. He has to be._

John felt a tear trickle down his face again. This time, he did not feel the need to wipe it right away. He just let the wet, salty liquid race down his cheek, like rain racing across a car window.

After pacing for about two minutes or so, John saw people entering through the waiting room door. Among the few people, he spotted two familiar faces; Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.

John quickly turned away from them and tried the brush the tears away, not wanting them to see him like this, especially Mrs. Hudson. He drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out, trying to calm himself. John turned back around and smiled, well at least what he thought was a smile. It probably looked more like a grimace than anything else.

As soon as Mrs. Hudson saw John, she quickly came up to him and embraced him. John put his arms around her and patted her back softly, hoping that it was somewhat comforting.

"Oh John; my dear John. Have you heard anything yet? Is Sherlock okay?" Mrs. Hudson said as she and John departed from the hug.

John rubbed the back of his neck, nervously and looked at Lestrade. He could not stand to look directly at Mrs. Hudson. If he did, he was sure that he would start crying again. "No one has given me an update about Sherlock's situation yet."

Greg nodded and spoke soothingly to the old woman, "How 'bout you sit down, Mrs. Hudson, while John and I go get some coffee. Do you want anything?"

"Thank you dear, but I am fine."

"Okay. We will be right back," Greg smiled at Mrs. Hudson and started to walk away, signaling for John to follow. John did just that.

They quietly walked over to the coffee machine that was at the other side of the large room. Neither of them looked at each other, except for a few glances that came from Lestrade's side. John just averted his eyes toward the floor or anywhere else that Lestrade wasn't. When they got to their destination, John continued to look at the linoleum tiles.

"You look terrible," Lestrade said, grabbing a coffee cup from the stack that was on the counter.

John finally lifted his head, his cold, blue eyes looking into Greg's brown ones. "You don't look too bad yourself."

Greg chuckled slightly. "Yeah, well that is what happens when you start turning grey, I guess…"

There was more silence, except for the sound of the coffee bubbling and the soft talking of other persons in the room.

Lestrade sighed. "How are you feeling and don't lie to me, John. I can tell when you are lying."

John looked away again, as if he was trying to hide the hurt spreading across his face. This made Lestrade very concerned; he has never seen John like this before. John is usually the strong type; he has to be because of what he has gone through being an army doctor in Afghanistan and going to horrible crime scenes.

"John?" Lestrade placed a hand on the other man's shoulder; John slightly flinched away from the touch. "What's wrong?"

"I-It was all my fault…" John mumbled, not audible enough for Lestrade to hear.

"What was that? I didn't quite catch what you said."

"I killed him, Greg!" John finally snapped, pushing Greg's hand away from his shoulder. The regret and guilt that was building up had finally seeped through the cracks and spilt over. Some people in the room turned their heads toward the two men, startled by the sudden outburst.

Lestrade did not know what to say. John looked and was acting like a crazed man. He looked around at the glaring people and lowered his voice. "John…"

"No," John interrupted. "You do not understand! It is my fault that Sherlock is here, dying in a hospital! I said so many terrible things to him, Greg, things that I cannot take back. And because of my bloody pride, I just left him alone to deal with the pain himself! If I was there… I-I mean if I did not leave I could have prevented him from…" Tears were flowing down John's face now. He turned away from Greg and hid his face in his hands, his body shaking from the sobs that were racking through his body. John wished that Lestrade would just punch him for what he has done, even though he knows he deserves worse.

Lestrade set down his empty cup and moved toward John. He lifted his hand and placed it on the other man's back, this time John did not shy away from the sudden touch.

"Shhh, John; it's okay. I am sure Sherlock is alright."

John drew his hands away from his face and turned his head toward Lestrade, his eyes blaring red. "No; no h-he is not alright. H-He tried t-to hang him-himself," John spoke through sobs.

Greg had a horrified look on his face. He was not sure if he heard correctly, so he said, "What?"

"I said that Sherlock tried to kill himself! P-Please don't make me say it again."

"Oh God…" Lestrade could not believe it; he didn't want to believe it. The great Sherlock Holmes tried to commit suicide. "Please John; don't blame yourself for Sherlock's actions."

"It was my f-fault, though. You d-did not hear the t-terrible things that I-I said to him."

"I… I know." Lestrade paused for a moment, contemplating on what to say next. "If you ever need anyone to talk to, I am always here for you. You do understand that, right?"

John slowly nodded and softly spoke. "Please do not tell Mrs. Hudson. I-If she found out, it would break her heart."

This time Lestrade was the one to shake his head, showing John that he understood. "I won't; I promise."

Greg went back to preparing his coffee, as John just stood and watched. He had stopped crying by this time, and Lestrade tried to convince John to have a cup of his own, but he refused. So they started to walk back toward where Mrs. Hudson was sitting. John sat beside his landlady and Greg sat beside John.

All three of them sat there for what seemed like a very long time. None of them spoke to each other. All they did was listen to the hustle of people as they milled in and out of the waiting room; it was all they could do, really.

After about a half an hour had passed, a nurse came in and searched the room. When she saw John she walked up to him.

Noticing the nurse walking toward him, John quickly stood up, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade doing the same thing, anxiously waiting for what the nurse was about to tell them.

"Hello. You're the man that came in with," She looked at her blue clip board, "Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes," John spoke, quickly, his breath catching in his throat.

She smiled. "He is still unconscious, but he is stable. We think that he will be alright and that his wounds will heal nicely."

John let out the breath he was holding, relief spreading through his body. _Sherlock is alive_, was all John could think about. "Thank you," John said, more to God than the nurse.

"You're welcome," She replied, smiling at the three. "You all can come see him now, if you would like."

"Yes, that would be wonderful. Thank you."

**A/N: Hey everyone! Sorry for another late update. I am trying my best to update as soon as I can, but I am never able to do it as quickly as I want to. So, yeah, I hope you liked the chapter! I am always happy to see all the reviews you amazing people leave for me; they inspire me to keep writing. I will try to update as soon as I possibly can! (:**


	7. White Walls

**Chapter 7: White Walls**

John followed the nurse down the cold hospital hallway, with Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson right behind him. John gripped tightly onto the orange shock blanket that was now off his shoulders and in his hands, making his knuckles turn white. He just stared straight forward with a stern look on his face. Other nurses in the hallway, whispered to each other and looked at him with a sympathy written all over their faces as he passed, as if they understood what he was feeling and knew what he is going through. John did not want their sympathy; he did not deserve it.

After a minute, they came up to a closed door; a private room. John gulped, knowing that they only give private rooms to people with serious conditions and for people on suicide watch; in Sherlock's case, probably both. He hoped Mrs. Hudson would not notice that.

The nurse pushed open the door for them, to reveal a small, white walled room with two chairs. There was a bed, with white sheets, against the back wall; _the_ bed that held John's best friend. The nurse mumbled under her breath about needing to get something and left to give them time alone with the patient.

Sherlock looked small and frail; his skin almost as white as the sheets that were covering him. He wore a pale blue hospital gown and was hooked up to a bunch of wires and tubes, one of them being a ventilator that was down his throat, making him look even more alien-like. The only thing recognizable was the flop of dark brown curls on the top of his head that stuck to his forehead from the perspiration that formed. But the thing that caught John's attention the most was the white bandages that were covering Sherlock's long neck.

Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade entered the room behind John. Mrs. Hudson gasped when she saw Sherlock and tears started filling her eyes. Lestrade put a hand on the old woman's back and glanced at the body that lay in the bed before him and just as quickly looked away. He could not stand to see Sherlock like this.

John and Lestrade stood back as Mrs. Hudson slowly walked up to Sherlock's bedside. She softly placed a hand on the man's cold cheek. "Oh Sherlock; my dear boy," She spoke quietly, and leaned down to place a kiss on Sherlock's clammy, sweat covered forehead. She drew back her hand and looked down at the man, giving him a sad smile. After a moment she walked back in silence to her spot right next to Lestrade.

The room went quiet, minus the soft beeping sounds coming from the heart monitor. After a while Lestrade cleared his throat and said, "Mrs. Hudson, how 'bout we let John have some time alone with Sherlock, yeah?" Mrs. Hudson nodded and touched John's hand for reassurance, as the two of them walked out the door, it clicking shut behind them.

For a moment, all John could do was just stand still and stare down at his flat mate from his place at the other end of the room. Many thoughts swam through his head, most of them jumbling up and giving him a massive headache. The more common question that came to mind was, _why. Why? Why did Sherlock do this to himself?_ John wanted to slap himself; of course he knew why. It was because of him that Sherlock was lying in this hospital, practically on life support.

John bowed his head and drew in a deep breath. He then covered his eyes with the hand that was not holding the shock blanket, hiding the tears that fell from his eyes. The guilt spread through his body like poison and compressed against his heart, making it ache. "I am sorry; I am so, so sorry I did this to you," John said, his voice wavered uncontrollably. He felt like he was going to collapse on the floor; he really wanted to. But he continued to stand in the same position, unmoving. "Please forgive me; oh God, please forgive me," John pleaded, both to Sherlock and to the God he did not fully believe in.

John wanted to punch a wall, scream at the top of his lungs, crawl into the fetal position and cry himself to sleep; anything to let his anger and pain leave his body. He could not do it. He could not let the catharsis out of him. It just continued to bubble up inside him, threatening to spill over.

John rubbed his eyes and lifted his head after a while, the tears still streaming down his face, no matter how many times he wiped them away. He decided that he needed to sit down, since his leg was starting to hurt him. It was good pain though, numbing pain; pain that he deserved.

John grabbed one of the chairs and pulled it up to Sherlock's bed, placing the blanket on the ground next to it. He sat down slowly, as if Sherlock was only sleeping, and he did not want to wake him from any sudden movements.

At the moment, all John could do was watch his friend's chest rise and fall, rise and fall. It comforted him in a way that nothing else could have. John softly pressed his fingers against Sherlock's wrist and felt his pulse, checking for himself that he was not dreaming and that Sherlock was truly alive. The heart beat was soft, but steady; the most wonderful sign of life.

John held Sherlock's pale hand in his own, knowing that if Sherlock were awake, he would have quickly moved it away, scoffing at John's sympathy. _Yeah,_ John thought, a small smile creeping across his face,_ that sounds like the Sherlock I know._

The smile slipped away as quickly as it formed, and John looked down at his lap. "Well um…" John spoke, his thoughts coming together to try and form a sentence. "I got the milk from the shop like you wanted me to. It has probably gone bad by now, though, since it did not exactly make it to the fridge." John sighed at his attempt of conversing with a man that he knew would not be able to answer him. He let out a breathy laugh and looked up at his flat mate. "Look at me going off about spoiled milk, like it is the most damn important thing in the world."

John wished that Sherlock could reply and say some kind of insulting, snarky comment, like he always did. He did not realize how much he treasured Sherlock's voice until now; now that it was silenced.

"I could go out and buy some more, if you really want me to. I-I promise I will never complain about it again…" John paused, closing his eyes for a moment, drawing in a deep breath. He hated feeling like this; feeling like the wind has been knocked out of you and never being able to bring in enough air to fill your lungs back up; feeling claustrophobic, like the walls were closing in on him, as if he were drowning. _Is that how Sherlock felt like in his last few seconds? Drowning? _John pushed the thought out of his head. He knew that he could never fathom what Sherlock felt while he saw the world around him go black.

John opened his eyes once more and looked back at his best friend. He waited a few seconds then continued. "Remember the first case we ever did together and how you called me an idiot? Well your right, you know. You are always right about everything, and you know it, too. You and your God damn brilliant, fantastic mind looking down at the world with knowing eyes, seeing everything that is hidden in the dark crevices of this earth..." John paused. "You should have told me. I would have not said all those terrible things if I knew that they hurt you. Sometimes I forget that you are human like the rest of us. I wish I could read people the way you can; this probably would not have happened if I could…"

The tears were falling more rapidly now. He slowly bowed his head and placed his forehead on his and Sherlock's intertwined hands, as his body shook from the sobs that racked through it. "I-I am so, so sorry. Please f-forgive me. I did not mean w-what I said. Please, Sherlock; oh God please forgive me…" He pleaded once more, even though he knew it would never make a difference.

This continued for about three minutes, until it was interrupted by a knock at the door. It opened to reveal the same nurse that brought them to Sherlock's room, but this time she carried a clipboard and a pen. She stopped suddenly once she realized that she intruded on the two men before her. "I'm sorry. I just came to check Sherlock's vitals. Do you want me to come back later?"

John lifted his head to look at the woman and cleared his throat, trying to hide the fact that he was sobbing, even though it was obvious by his wet face and how his body still shook. "No, i-it's fine. Go right ahead." He let go of Sherlock's hand and stood up, moving out of the way for the nurse.

John stood awkwardly off to the side, as the nurse moved toward the hospital bed. He was determining whether he should stay in the room or just leave. But the nurse's voice stopped him before he could make a decision.

"You saved his life, you know," The nurse said calmly as she looked over Sherlock. After John did not reply, she decided to change the subject to something less touchy. "Where did you learn your medical skills from, if you do not mind me asking?"

John rubbed the back of his neck, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the conversation, and spoke softly. "I was a doctor for the Royal Army Medical Corps deployed in Afghanistan."

"I knew you had to be army. I could tell by the way you hold yourself in front of people." She glanced back at him and smiled. John just nodded.

There was an awkward silence for a few seconds, both of them not knowing what to say next. After a while, it was finally broken by John's voice. "Um… will you excuse me? I am going to step out for a while," John said, trying to not be rude.

The nurse gave him another sympathetic smile, hoping that she did not make it too uncomfortable for him. "Okay. I will update you if anything else changes."

"Thank you." John pushed open the door and left the room. He gave out a small sigh of relief when he saw Greg leaning his back against the while wall beside the door. He looked around and realized that Mrs. Hudson was not with him.

"How are you feeling?" Greg asked as soon as he saw John walk into the hallway.

John ignored the question and turned toward the detective inspector, asking, "Where is Mrs. Hudson?"

"She left, the poor lady. It is a very troublesome thing for a woman of her age to come to a hospital, especially when it is for someone she really cares about. She would have told you, but she did not want to disturb you." Greg paused, and then continued. "She is really worried about you, you know; we both are."

John sighed, running his hand through his hair. "I am fine…"

"Do not lie to me, John. I can tell that you are far from fine, especially after I witnessed you having a mental breakdown in the waiting room not too long ago."

John avoided Greg's eyes by looking down at the floor, feeling slightly embarrassed. Greg walked toward John until they were about a foot apart and placed both of his hands on the other man's shoulders.

"John, look at me." John eventually looked up and stared into Greg's dark brown irises. After Greg decided that he had John's full attention, he continued. "Please, don't do this to yourself. It is literally terrifying to see you this way. _You_ are a good man; in fact, you are one of the best men I have ever had the privilege to meet. You have affected the lives of so many people because of that big, damn heart of yours. You place everyone before yourself, even if it means that your life is put in danger, and _that_, John, is hard to come by in this selfish world of ours." Greg paused. "Ever since Sherlock met you, he has become a better man. You have changed him, even when the rest of us thought it was a hopeless cause. You saw past all his imperfections and found something that none of us could see. He really needed you, and he still does."

John did not reply as he continued to stare into the detective inspector's eyes, as if he were searching for any lingering truth in the words his friend said. Greg did not know what else he could say to make the other man understand that none of this was his fault and to make him feel better. So before he could think of what to do, much to his and John's surprise, Greg pulled John into a hug.

At first, John just stood there stiffly as the older man embraced him, but he slowly relaxed until both men were holding each other. Much to both of their dismay, it was quite comforting; it was not like an embrace that two lovers would give, but more like one that a father and a son or two best friends would share when they were both feeling a mutual pain. It was like they were telepathically telling each other that everything was going to be alright, even if it does not feel like it at the moment.

"Thank you," John whispered, half mindedly, as he stared straight ahead at the white wall behind Greg's back; the wall that separated John from the room where Sherlock is laying unconscious. Whether Greg was right or wrong, it still did not change the fact that John made a horrible mistake that almost cost his best friend's life. A mistake that was already fixed in time and one that can never be taken back.

Greg pulled out of the embrace and said warmly. "Like I said before, I am always here for you."

**A/N: Hey everyone! Sorry again for another late update. I am trying my best to write whenever I have a free moment, even if it is only for ten minutes. This is my longest chapter in this story so far! Exciting! Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter and all its emotionalness-ness. It kind of gets depressing, but I hope the friendship at the end makes up for it. I always love seeing everyone's reviews! They help motivate me to continue writing. So yeah… Cheers! **


	8. Haunting Memories

**A/N: WARNING: Mentions of Physical Abuse and Alcoholism.**

**Chapter 8: Haunting Memories**

'_Dionaea muscipula, more commonly known as the Venus Flytrap, is one of the most well-known carnivorous plants found in the subtropical wetlands located on the East Coast of the United States. It uses its jaw-like trapping structure to catch its prey, which consists of mostly arachnids and insects…'_

_The little boy stared down at the large Botany encyclopedia with wonder-filled eyes. He took in all the information with excitement, as he stored it into his slowly forming mind palace. He was sitting cross legged on a maroon, leather armchair with the thick book placed on his lap. The private study was his favorite place to be, having the large book cases tower over him, begging him to explore the many wonders that lay on their shelves._

_There was a loud, distant door slam that made the little boy jump out of his seat, the book crashing to the floor in the process._

"_Sherlock!" A booming, drunken voice echoed through the mansion. There was a crashing sound that came from right outside the study, as if something glass was thrown at a wall and it shattered to the hardwood floor._

_Sherlock was frozen with fear. He wanted to run away, hide, jump out of his own skin, anything, but all he could do was stand completely still. The book lay completely forgotten at his little feet._

_The large oak door opened, banging against the rubber door stopper connected to the wall. A tall, dark haired man walked into the room, a bottle of alcohol in his right hand. He turned to the small boy, glaring at him with his ice cold eyes. "Why are you in my study?"_

_Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but nothing came out, his body trembling under his father's gaze._

"_Answer me when I am speaking to you, you little shit!" He moved closer, almost in hitting distance of the boy. _

"_I-I was reading, father," he spoke softly but loud enough for his father to hear him._

_The father looked down at the book that was on the floor, reading the title, Botany: The Study of Plant Identification. A scowl crossed the man's face as he gripped tighter onto the glass bottle, making his knuckles turn white. He brought his grey-eyed gaze back up to his son and stepped closer to him. "You think you can just waltz your little five year old ass in here anytime you want and just steal my books!" He spat, hard liquor ever present on his breath. Sherlock flinched and looked away, trying to hide the tears that were forming in his eyes. "Look at me when I am talking, you little freak!" The man slapped his son's cheek, making him fall hard against the ground._

"_I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Sherlock cried out in pain, the tears streaming freely down his face now. He tried to stand back up, but his father just kicked him in the stomach making him fall back to the ground._

_The father placed the bottle on the floor and started to undo his belt buckle. "Mycroft!" He yelled out as he pulled the black leather through the belt loops on his pants and started to wrap the part without the metal around his right hand. _

_Footsteps came closer, and then a twelve year old boy with reddish-brown hair walked into the room. "Yes, father?" He spoke, and then gasped as he saw his father basically rip the balling little boy's shirt off his back._

"_Close the door behind you. I want you to see what happens to little boys when they disobey their father."_

"_But, father…"Mycroft said, worryingly, stepping closer to the two. His little, trembling brother stared at him with pleading eyes that made his heart break._

"_SHUT UP! Stay exactly where you are and watch!" Mycroft made no further attempts to move. He shifted his attention back to his son that was lying on his stomach at his feet. "I am going to make you wish that you were never born!"_

Sherlock woke up with a start, his heart racing and beating out of his chest. He tried to take in a breath but there was something down his throat, preventing him from doing so. He started to panic, not knowing where he was or what was going on. He tried to look around, but when he moved his head, a sharp and excruciating pain shot through his neck and down his spine, making him want to scream out and gasp at the same time. With a lot of effort and muscles soreness, Sherlock lifted his weak hands toward his face and tried to pull out what he did not know at the time was a ventilator.

In the middle of his act of pulling the tube out, someone came up and pushed his hands away. He tried to fight them off as best as he could, but he was too weak and the person was easily able to place his arms back against what felt like a bed. People were speaking to him, but he could not make out any of the words. All he could hear was his own heartbeat blaring in his ears.

He wanted to yell out for help, but he could not. All that came out was a muffled, breathy noise. All the faces surrounding him were blurred and unfamiliar, white surrounding their heads, like a blank void. Sherlock tried to struggle out of their grasp.

Suddenly, something as cold as ice ran through his veins and compressed against his chest. He grew very tired and gave up on trying to fight. He tried to keep his eyes open, but the drowsiness overcame him, until all he could do was just lay there as the faces slowly disappeared, and the white void turned to darkness.

xXx

John's head jerked forward off his hand where it was resting, waking him up. He slowly opened his heavy, tired eyes, revealing the golden light that was now beginning to shine through the hospital's glass doors. He squinted as he looked down at his phone, checking the time. It read 5:32 a.m.

John groaned; it had only been a little more than an hour since the last time he woke up from his restless, nightmare filled sleep. He tried to push himself up into a straight sitting position in the very uncomfortable waiting room chair that he had been shifting in all night.

Greg was with him for a few of those hours, until he was called away to a crime scene very late last night. He did not want to leave John, for fear of what might happen if he were to be left alone. John repeatedly told him that he was fine and that he was a grown man and could manage by himself. Plus, he rather be alone anyway.

John's stomach growled at him for the lack of nourishment that it was receiving since yesterday, minus the tea and toast he had for breakfast the morning before. Greg tried to get him to eat or, at least, drink something from the cafeteria, but he refused and explained that he was not hungry; which, of course, was a lie. But, John knew that if he tried to eat anything, it would most likely come back up as soon as it reached the bottom of his nauseated stomach.

The last time John remembered not having anything to eat for this long was when he was in Afghanistan. He would have no time to eat, since he had back to back surgeries almost every day as he tried to keep the seriously injured soldiers alive, so they could return home to their families and friends.

Those were some of his hardest times he had to face. He watched as brave men and women, many of them being his close acquaintances, got caught in crossfire or were blown up by a bomb or a mine, their bodies becoming bloodied and mutilated. John tried to save as many as he could, as he amputated limbs, removed big pieces of shrapnel, sewed up large wounds, and stopped internal bleeding and infections from spreading. But he could not save all of them. Some of them had died on his operating table or they died while they were being transported. John had seen the life slip from their pain filled eyes, and listened as they took their last, rasping breath. These experiences taught him that he could not save everyone, that he could not play God. It had made him numb, and he experienced a lot of restless nights, where the images would never leave him. John would continue to tell himself that he tried, and later on, he had to accept it.

This was different though. This time, John knew he could have prevented Sherlock from trying to take his life; and just thinking about it made guilt burn through him again, like a raging fire that will never stop growing as it eats everything in its path. The flashbacks of war were replaced with horrid images of his best friend hanging from the ceiling of their flat; his head bowing slightly with greyish-blue eyes staring off into the distance, the light slowly escaping from them. His long, slim body swung, as his limbs uncontrollably twitched from his muscles that were not receiving the oxygen that they needed.

John rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, as if it were going to help push the images out of his mind. It was a hopeless cause, though; he knew they were going to be forever imprinted in his hippocampus.

John let his hands drop back down into his lap, as he took in a deep breath to try and calm himself. Of course it was not very helpful, but it was the only thing he could think of doing besides punching a wall and screaming at the top of his lungs. He knew that everyone else in the room would probably not appreciate him doing that, though, especially this early in the morning. Plus, he was so exhausted and drained that he would not even be able to get up out of his chair, let alone have enough strength to punch a wall.

So John just sat there, haunting memories, old and new, visiting him against his will.

After a few minutes longer of sitting, John's stiff body, especially his legs, began to scream at him to get up and stretch. He really did not want to because of how light headed he was, but he sighed and slowly got up anyway.

John's head was spinning, causing him to place a hand against a wall so he would not collapse. He stood like that for a few seconds with his eyes closed, breathing in and out of his nose slowly. A few people that were near him in the waiting room came up and asked if he was alright, but he just brushed them off and whispered he that he was fine.

After a while, John decided he really needed some water, so he opened his eyes and slowly limped his way over to the water dispenser. He grabbed one of the small paper cups and pushed the button for the water to come out. John gulped down the cold water, feeling it slowly drain down his dry throat.

As John went to pour his third cup, the hospital doors that led to the private rooms opened. John turned his head toward the sudden motion. A nurse walked through the door, and John recognized her as the one that brought her to Sherlock the day before. He quickly dropped the cup in the waste bin and walked over to her, ignoring the shooting pain in his leg.

"Good morning, Doctor." She gave him a genuine smile, that John was hoping meant there was going to be some good news about his best friend. She looked him over and noticed that he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. "Have you been here all night?" She asked, sounding concerned.

"How is he?" John asked, anxiously, ignoring her question all together.

"Sherlock just woke up about forty five minutes ago. He was in a bit of a panic, but that is normal for a man in his… situation." This statement made John's heart sink to the pit of his empty stomach. Seeing John's worried face, the nurse quickly continued. "We gave him a mild sedative, so he is stable now. Sedatives do not last very long for adults, so he should be awake by now, if you would like to go see him."

John nodded. "Yes, that would be wonderful. Thank you."

The nurse nodded and stepped back through the double doors; John followed.

They walked through the hallway, passing many closed doors. John ignored the sounds of pain and sadness surrounding him, as he was focused on one thing; the most important person to him right now.

They turned a corner and approached the doorway to Sherlock's private room.

Seeing the door, John stopped cold in the middle of the hallway. A few thoughts struck him, making him panic slightly. _Oh God… What is Sherlock going to say when he sees me? What am I going to tell him? I do not know if I can look into his eyes, his cold, grey eyes that I saw life slip from, without having another mental break down. It was only yesterday that I held his almost lifeless body in my arms, staring down at him as I begged for God to keep him alive while we waited for an ambulance to arrive._

Hearing no footsteps behind her, the nurse turned back and stopped walking after she noticed John was not following any more. See looked worryingly at him and asked, "Are you okay, Doctor Watson?"

John immediately snapped out of the trance he was in, as he let out a shaky breath and cleared his throat. "Y-Yeah, I am fine; just fine."

The nurse did not believe him, but knew it was not her place to pry into his personal business. So, she nodded and continued walking, John hesitantly following once more.

They finally reached their destination. The nurse knocked softly three times on the door, turned the knob, and slowly opened it. John entered after her.

John's breath caught in his throat as his eyes stopped to the man on the bed. Sherlock was awake; _alive_. The feeling of both joy and sadness filled his chest.

His friend's eyes where focused on the nurse in front of him, not noticing John had not come in with her. He looked like he just woke up from an eternal sleep, yet his eyes were still alert and cold; the norm for Sherlock.

"Sherlock, your fiancé is here to see you." She smiled at him. John let out an internal sigh; of course the paramedic told everyone that he was Sherlock's fiancé. Gossip must pass around very quickly in this hospital.

Sherlock looked puzzled and lost from what the nurse said. He then turned his attention to John. John gave him the same stern look that he always did when he wanted to tell Sherlock not to ask and that he would explain later. But instead of a nod of understanding, Sherlock just continued to stare at him, unblinking, as if he was trying to deduce who the person was in front of him.

The nurse went to work on checking Sherlock's monitors. John, not looking directly at Sherlock, just continued to stand in the same spot as his best friend looked him over.

The nurse pressed a button to put Sherlock's bed in a position to where he is sitting up slightly. Sherlock's gaze broke from John when the nurse slowly started to fix the gauze that covered his neck, making him jerk away from her.

"It is okay, Sherlock." She said soothingly. "I am only trying to change out your bandages." She slowly moved her hands back to his neck, but Sherlock still shifted away from her as much as possible.

As the struggle continued, John went over to the sink, washed his hands, and put on a pair of latex gloves. "Here," he said as he moved to the nurse's side, "let me do it." After objecting a little bit, the nurse finally complied and moved out of the way.

John leaned forward and grabbed the corner of one of the gauze, beginning to remove it. Sherlock flinched, but this time, he did not move away from the touch. John removed it slowly, making sure that it did not grab any skin or scabs. When the first one was fully taken off, it revealed torn up, raw skin that was starting to inflame. John closed his eyes for a moment and drew in a deep breath, trying to keep himself as calm as possible.

He opened his eyes and continued to remove the rest of the gauze on the front and sides of his long neck. During the whole time John was doing this, Sherlock did not glance at him once. He just continued to stare at the wall in front of him.

When John was done redressing the front, John spoke softly, but loud enough for both the nurse and his flat mate to hear. "Sherlock, I am going to redress the bandages in the back, now. I need you to lean forward slightly, and the nurse will help you. Please do not fight her."

There was no reply from Sherlock. But, luckily, when the nurse placed an arm across Sherlock's chest and the other hand held his head, leaning him forward, he did not fight her.

When John was finished, he placed his right hand behind Sherlock's head, and together, he and the nurse slowly lowered Sherlock back against the bed.

For the first time since he got in the room, John came face to face with Sherlock and looked directly into his eyes. His irises were grey with flecks of blue, like a cold, winter storm; full of life and wonder, as if he just looked upon the world for the first time. They were the most beautiful things that John had seen in such a long time. Even just for a moment, they made all his worries and sorrows melt away.

The nurse cleared her throat, bringing John's attention back to reality. He looked up to see the nurse standing near the door with a clipboard, smiling. "A doctor will be with you shortly." She said as she hung the clipboard from the nail on the wall. John mouthed thank you, and she just nodded, slowly closing the door behind her, leaving John and Sherlock alone in the cold hospital room.

**A/N: Oh God… I have not updated in such a long time… I hope you guys are still with me. I know John's questions have not been answered yet (and that probably frustrates you all), but they will be in the next chapter. I promise! I will be adding a little twist to the story, that I hope you all will like. Hopefully by the time summer hits (not too long from now), I will have a lot more time to update. You all are so loyal, and I applaud you for that because I know it is not easy to wait patiently. Just please bear with me. **

**I always love seeing everyone's thoughts and opinions in the reviews. They are all so inspiring and helpful. A big thanks goes out to Nat who has been with me since the very beginning and has never given up on me. Your reviews always lighten up my day and keep me motivated to keep writing.**

**Thank you all again!**


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